


And One to Grow On

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 19:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18413951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: Bellamy wasn't planning to celebrate his twenty-eighth birthday on his actual birthday, given it's a Monday and he's a teacher. He has things to do on weekdays that do not involve drinking or debauchery.His friends have other ideas, though, and he has a very weird Tuesday.





	And One to Grow On

Bellamy's first mistake is assuming that he's safe because his twenty-eighth birthday is on a Monday.

He doesn't make any plans, obviously. Celebrating the weekend before always feels kind of like cheating, but he invited people out for drinks on Friday, which he assumed was sufficient. It wasn't like he was ignoring his birthday.

When he gets home from work, Clarke isn't there, which isn't particularly surprising, but she has left a cupcake with a single candle on the kitchen counter, and a card that says, _Happy birthday! See you in a couple hours, I hope_. It's a fairly typical Clarke message, one that would have pissed him off, once upon a time. He moved in with her because the rent was cheap and the apartment was nice, and Clarke was friends with Monty, who is his friend who is least likely to tell him to move in with someone who is secretly awful as a joke.

And Clarke really isn't awful. The biggest issue was that she's rich and her parents own her very nice condo, and Bellamy was surly and vaguely resentful about the way she didn't have to work like a normal person and could still take care of herself. He might have been benefiting from her wealth, but that didn't make him like her.

Luckily, Clarke could do that all on her own. Within about a month, their bickering had moved from barbed to affectionate, and as he got to know her, he started to realize how hard Clarke did work, albeit with weird hours and less compensation than most people would need to survive. She wasn't an idle rich person, she was a rich person who took advantage of being well off to do what she wanted. It sucked that he couldn't do the same, but that's not really Clarke's fault. She works part-time for Planned Parenthood and volunteers at various museums and goes to parties her mother has just to argue with rich assholes, and on the side, she does art. 

Now that he likes her, he's glad she's got the life she wants. She deserves it.

Right now, she's probably in her studio, so he texts _Do you want me to make dinner for you or are you good?_ and goes to find a beer. He's going to have a couple drinks, not do any grading, and play video games, and when Clarke gets home, she'll probably hang out with him. It's a pretty good birthday plan, as far as he's concerned.

When the door opens half an hour into this plan, he calls, "Hey, welcome back!" and doesn't think anything of Clarke's not responding until the blindfold goes on.

"Happy birthday, dickweed," says Murphy, and shoves at shot into his hand.

"We love you," Miller adds.

"If you really loved me, you'd let me stay home and play Stardew Valley."

Miller takes one of his arms and Murphy takes the other and they pull him up and out of the apartment. He doesn't resist that much--they're probably not going to kill him on purpose, and if they got into the apartment, Clarke is at least involved, and she won't let them kill him by accident--but he makes sure there's enough resistance that they know he's not thrilled about this turn of events.

When he gets into the car, he gets _another_ shot, and then Clarke says, "Your safe word is banana cream pie."

"Really?" he asks, downing the shot. It does actually taste like banana cream pie, which is kind of terrifying. "Is my safe word supposed to be dirty? That seems counter-productive."

"Is banana cream pie dirty?"

"It sounds like a euphemism for something. Come on, that's some sexual imagery."

"It might have been too long since you've gotten laid. Are you planning to figure out what sex act _banana cream pie_ could refer to and then ask me to do it?"

"I'm definitely planning to do the first part." The second's not unappealing either, but he knows better than to fuck his roommate, especially his roommate he has a crush on. That's a recipe for disaster.

"Me too," Clarke admits. "But if you need to get out of this at any time, tell me _banana cream pie_ and I'll bail you out."

"And you'll be a pathetic asshole," says Murphy. Then he squeaks, so Bellamy assumes Clarke kicked him.

"She'd only agree to this if we gave you an out," says Miller.

"This is why she's my favorite."

"Uh huh."

She's also his favorite because she ignores Miller. "So, do you need to get out?" she asks.

If he was a little better at letting friends down and/or self-preservation, he'd just say the safe word, and he and Clarke would get out of the car and have the low-key evening he'd been planning. That would definitely be the right choice. But they went to so much trouble, and he's kind of curious, and he's going to get to hang out with Clarke either way, so--

"I need another shot," he says, and everyone cheers.

*

Bellamy's alarm is set to go off every weekday at five-thirty, which is good because he wouldn't have remembered to set it and bad because his fucking phone is going off and he's definitely going to _die_. His mouth tastes like old leather, his whole body aches, and he thinks he banged his elbow on something, but he has no idea what or when or how.

"Happy birthday to me," he mutters, and staggers into the shower.

He stays in there for longer than usual, letting the hot water ease the various aches and pains in his muscles, but despite that, when he gets out of the shower, he still sees that _BIRTHDAY BOY_ is written on his forehead in bright red sharpie, apparently unaffected by the steady stream of water trying to wash it off.

The calculations happen as quickly as they can, given how slowly his brain is moving. He spent a long time in the shower, and he's been dragging his feet every step of the way on top of that, so he doesn't have a lot of time to spare. He could try to scrub the marker off and be late, or he could just let it slide. His first-period class is APUSH, and while they're obviously assholes, they're the kind of assholes who will have fun with the teacher coming in with something weird written on his forehead. And then he's got second period free and he can deal with the problem then. That should be enough time.

It's not the _best_ solution. But it's the best one he's got.

He gets dressed, gets packed, and makes sure he's completely ready to go before he pushes Clarke's door open and shakes her awake.

"What?" she asks, muzzy. 

She's good at falling back to sleep, so he doesn't feel that bad for saying, "Hey, quick question."

She sits up, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. "Yeah."

"Is there writing anywhere else on my body?"

It doesn't seem to be the question she was expecting. "What?"

"I've got this," he says, pointing to his forehead. "Anywhere else? I don't want to find out from a student."

"Yeah, I guess you wouldn't." She finds her glasses on the bedside table and examines him, with a small frown. "I think you're good, as long as you keep wearing exactly that amount of clothing."

"Cool. Sorry I woke you up."

"I probably deserved it." She wets her lips. "That's it?"

"Yeah. Have a good day, get more sleep, I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

*

In Bellamy's experience, high-school kids think they're much slicker than they are. Which, to be fair, is true of a lot of people. But it's clear even to his alcohol-fogged brain that his APUSH class is laughing at him and they think he hasn't noticed, which is kind of pathetic. That is a level of failure to deceive that is truly epic.

"Okay," he says, once he's done with his lecture. No one has said a single word about the message on his forehead, and that _is_ impressive. They're passing notes about it, but the class collectively understands that this is a rare and beautiful moment that must be protected at all costs. "Before we break into groups, any questions?"

Fox's hand shoots up, and he points at her. "How old are you, Mr. Blake?"

There's some giggling, and someone hisses, _be cool_ in what they clearly think is a whisper. He can't tell who it is, though, so that's something.

"Uh, I just turned twenty-eight."

Apparently it wasn't the answer they were expecting; the news sets off another round of frantic whispering.

"I'm going to regret asking this, but did you guys think I was younger or older?"

"I thought you were, like, twenty-four, tops," says Sterling. "Maybe just out of college."

"Thanks, I think. Is any of this relevant to the exercise we're doing?"

"You asked," Sterling shoots back, which is true.

"I did, thanks for letting me know. Any relevant questions?"

"Did you do anything fun last night?" asks Jordan, and he makes a show of rolling his eyes. He's Monty's little brother, and Miller has a huge crush on Monty, so Jordan might actually have insider information on Bellamy's private life. It's something he tries not to think about.

"I don't know, did you? Get to work, Green."

The period ends with none of the students having told him about the writing on his forehead, which is the kind of thing that feels like it deserves a reward. He had expected someone to tell him, and the fact that no one did is genuinely impressive. They did a really good job.

 **Me** : Do you think I can leave this message on my forehead until a student tells me it's there?

 **Clarke** : I think you can do whatever you want  
That's your question?

 **Me** : My first period class didn't say anything about it  
I want to see how long they can go

 **Clarke** : They're going to counter-bet how long it'll be before you notice

 **Me** : So everyone will have an exciting day  
How's your hangover?

 **Clarke** : I don't get hangovers, I'm not an amateur  
Did you have fun?

 **Me** : I think so  
My memories are basically a fight scene filmed by Peter Jackson with a strobe light, so it's hard to be sure

 **Clarke** : Ouch

 **Me** : Did I ever use my safe word?

 **Clarke** : No  
It seemed like you were having fun

 **Me** : I'm pretty sure I was  
Thanks for helping to set it up

 **Clarke** : [thumb's up emoji]

By fourth period, his day has completely turned around. His students have all entered into some kind of blood pact about not telling him that he has something written on his forehead, and three of his coworkers have come over to tell him privately, which means he can get them in on the whole thing. The students are convinced he just hasn't looked in the mirror since whenever the message was left, and there's some sort of pool to see who can find out who wrote it, which is doomed to failure. Unless someone confesses, the mystery of who wrote on his forehead will probably remain unsolved.

Still, it's nice to see the students banding together to keep a secret from him. Anything that gets the kids united is good in his book.

Madi Taylor from his sixth-period freshmen is the one who finally tells him, quiet and a little hesitant, after a homework question, when no one is around. She's clearly aware it's a betrayal, but she is one of his favorite students. He can't be mad she's on his side.

"You've got something on your forehead," is her way of putting it, which is pretty cute.

"Yeah, I know."

Her eyes widen. "Who told you?"

"Madi, how many mornings do you not look in the mirror before you go to school?"

"I heard you came right from the party."

"I don't know how anyone would know that, but I didn't." He smiles. "Don't tell them, I know you guys are having fun."

She looks dubious. "Aren't you going to get in trouble? Like, with the principal or something?"

"Not if everyone's cool."

Once she's gone, he texts Clarke _someone finally cracked_ and then tries very hard to not think about when she'll respond, but that's an uphill battle. Because he always texts Clarke throughout the day, and she's been weird today. Off. Her replies feel terse, irritated and she could be distracted, but it feels like he fucked up something he doesn't even know about. 

It's not even his fault, _she_ was the one giving him endless shots. And she's the one who remembers what happened. He can't fix issues he doesn't know about.

 **Me** : Did I do something to Clarke last night?

 **Miller** : Dude, I'm not setting you up for this

 **Me** : Setting me up for what?

 **Miller** : Some shitty dad joke about how laid you got

He drops the phone and it clatters across the floor, startling his last-period class as they work on their quiz. It doesn't get close enough for anyone to pick it up, but Ethan does ask, "Did you finally see your reflection?" 

"Eyes on your papers, it's just a phone," he says, grabbing it. "Two more minutes."

 **Me** : Your shots got me blackout drunk and Clarke is mad at me  
Talk

Miller doesn't respond before the quiz ends, so Bellamy has to actually be a teacher instead of checking his phone, which is a fucking nightmare. Teaching is his passion, but finding out what happened last night and if he ruined his entire life hitting on Clarke or something would be nice too. That's the kind of data it's important to have.

"And yes, I have known about the writing on my face for the whole day," he tells them, wrapping up his lecture a minute before the bell. "But I'm proud of you guys for not telling me and assuming I don't know what mirrors are. Read the next chapter for tomorrow and be ready to talk about what you want to do for your projects."

He makes himself wait until all the kids are gone before he finally checks his phone, makes himself go to the top of the texts before he starts reading.

 **Miller** : Shit  
Um  
Ok  
I wasn't paying a ton of attention  
Flirting with Monty etc  
But I know you and Clarke were joined at the hip  
Which is pretty standard  
But you were drunk and touchy-feely  
And later on I saw you guys full-on making out  
And then you told me you were leaving with this huge shit eating grin on your face  
I figured you guys had sloppy drunk sex and I'd never hear the end of it

 **Me** : Fuck I hope we didn't  
If I had sex with Clarke and FORGOT  
Fuck  
Thanks

 **Miller** : Just remember, it takes two  
You weren't the only one grinning and slobbering  
Just talk to her

 **Me** : I'm trying  
Thanks for the update

 **Miller** : Let me know how it goes  
The G-rated version

It's hard for Bellamy to believe there's going to be any version aside from the G-rated one, but he honestly understand why Miller thinks it's a good sign. If he was Clarke and he'd spent last night making out with her, only for her to spend the whole day texting him about some stupid shit, he'd probably be pretty upset. And if he thought that making out was a mistake, he probably wouldn't be snippy about it. He'd be relieved that she didn't know it had happened.

Or maybe he wouldn't. Even if he made out with someone he hated, he'd probably be annoyed if they just _forgot_. No matter how he felt about the person, he'd like to be memorable. 

But really, there's only one way to find out why she's mad at him; there was only ever one way. They're just going to have to talk.

 **Me** : Do you need dinner?

 **Clarke** : At the studio  
But thanks

Clarke's studio is a few blocks from their apartment, so he stops by on his way home from work all the time. If she'd said that on an ordinary night, he would probably stop by, so he can do it tonight too. It's not weird. Or at least, it shouldn't be. Everything is covered with a thin film of weirdness right now, but he'll break through it. He has to.

He's still mildly hungover and doesn't feel like cooking anyway, so he picks up some Chinese on his way. He can hear Clarke's angry playlist blaring as soon as he gets off the elevator, which isn't the best sign, but it's not like waiting will make it better. Not with unspoken grudges festering between them.

Not with his lips tingling with the knowledge that he kissed her and no fucking idea what it felt like.

"Clarke!" he calls, rapping on the door. "Open up, you need to eat!"

The music cuts off and the door swings open. Clarke is paint-splattered and wild, and he wants to kiss her now, fucking wants to kiss her all the time. It's not new, but it does seem more urgent.

"Did we make out last night?" he blurts out, and Clarke slumps against the wall. 

"You remembered?"

"No," he admits. "I asked Miller why you were pissed at me and he said the last time he saw us, we were making out."

She wets her lips, not meeting his eyes. "I didn't think you were that drunk. I didn't know you--I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have--"

It makes sense all at once, even if it kind of breaks his heart. She thinks she took advantage of him and she's annoyed with herself for doing it. It's perfectly, totally understandable.

"Clarke, you didn't do anything wrong."

Her eyes flash. "How do you know? You don't know what happened."

"Did we kiss?" 

"Yeah."

"Did we do anything else? After we got home."

"No. Just at the party. But you were way too drunk to--"

"You were pretty drunk too." He swallows, steps closer. "What happened? Why did we?"

"Because I wanted to!" she snaps. "Because I've been wanting to kiss you since you moved in and I thought you wanted to too and I--"

Interrupting someone with a kiss is, in Bellamy's experience, easier said than done. It happens all the time in movies and books, but it's hard to coordinate in real life, not nearly as fluid or smooth as he wants it to be. It should be a cool moment, but it takes a second to slot into place, Clarke's jaw under his fingers, her lips under his mouth.

But then she whimpers, tugs him close, kisses back, and it _is_ familiar. They've done this before. They're _good_ at this.

"I can't believe I forgot about this," he says. "Jesus, I didn't think it was possible for me to be so drunk I'd lose this."

Her smile is sheepish. "I did give you a lot of shots."

"Probably not just you. I'm pretty sure I drank my weight in birthday shots." He swallows. "So, uh--are we good?"

"Are we going to do that again?"

"I'm in love with you," he says. "So--yeah. As much as possible."

She laughs, winds her arms around his neck and kisses him again. "Wash your forehead off," she says. "Then we're good."

He had actually completely forgotten about the writing on his forehead; he hadn't had time to wash it off, with everything else happening, but it also didn't seem very important. "Do you know who wrote it?"

"No. But that's why I kissed you." 

"Seriously?"

"I was just looking for an excuse."

"I'm glad you got one. Maybe I should keep it."

She pushes him away gently, still smiling. "Nope. Get cleaned up and we can have dinner."

He grins back. "It's a date."


End file.
